


this one's mine

by Slumber



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (bet you didn't see this blend of tags coming), Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Drift Compatibility, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, MSBY Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25129441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: On a rainy night in Tokyo, in a place he wasn't supposed to be, Atsumu finds—and loses—the man he'd pilot a Jaeger with. He's left with no name, no face, and nearly no time.Hedoeshave a shoe, though.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 26
Kudos: 203
Collections: MSBY Exchange





	this one's mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ellieb3an](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellieb3an/gifts).



> Gosh I was so excited to make something for you! Your prompts were so great and I knew immediately which one I wanted to go with. I hope you like this. ♥

Tokyo looks nothing like the pictures. 

Atsumu had thought it then, when he and Osamu first moved to the Shatterdome as young recruits from Inarizaki. Gone were the sleek skyscrapers and shiny buildings of the pre-Breach era, the kind textbooks still pretended existed, and in their place stood nothing new and beautiful. The only things left behind were ruins and remains: the occasional skeletal steel of long-destroyed towers, the crumbling carcass of long-defeated kaiju. 

What survives of the city clings low to the ground, clustered together as though solidarity gave it strength in their numbers, bruised and battered facades streaked with grime and graffiti as though the ugliness gave them character. 

Tokyo is nothing like the pictures, and Miya Atsumu will not be piloting a Jaeger with his brother.

Above him, the evening sky flashes suddenly with lightning, rumbling moments later with a clap of thunder. Atsumu only has seconds to pull his jacket closer to him before the downpour follows, thick fat drops of rain making the street slick and blanketing the city with misery. 

He's drenched immediately. He's stopped paying attention to where he was going five minutes out of the Shatterdome, so Atsumu just keeps walking, turning the corners where the puddles seem shallower, following the hazy neon lights deeper into the alleys only for lack of better options.

Foster had told him he'd have plenty of options, earlier that day. Enough that they were confident about finding a suitable co-pilot among the lot.

He isn't lying, but Foster also defines suitability in the way cadets are rotated through units and run through their paces, shoved into the same shared spaces as teens freshly plucked right out of the academies, drilled with the same fighting techniques and principles so when they're shoved into the drift, it doesn't matter who's shoved in there with them. 

Compatibility instilled through training. A bond bred from forced familiarity. 

It wasn't the _same_.

Osamu tells him to stop being a prick about it, utterly unsympathetic, but he's the one switching away from the ranger track to engineering like a—like a damn traitor. He's not the one who's gonna have to share a curated headspace with a stranger after knowing what it's like to share a real one with his brother.

Atsumu kicks at an offending puddle on the ground, succeeding only in making the inside of his boots sopping wet. He trudges on, the _squelch-squelch-squelch_ of wet feet against wet leather only one of many mild discomforts on this rainy, unpleasant evening.

They can all go to hell, see if he cares. Tomorrow the Marshal is going to find him a co-pilot and Osamu's gonna watch from the sidelines, so tonight— 

He isn't sure what makes him do it—a sudden shift in the wind, a tug of something invisible—but Atsumu stumbles, instinct driving him to step to the side seconds before a stranger comes barreling out of nowhere and right past him, rushing in the rain and nearly knocking into him. "Oy!"

"Sorry!" the stranger says, hasty, but doesn't so much as turn around or even slow down.

That's what sends a streak of annoyance flashing through Atsumu more than the near-run-in. "Hey! You call that an apology?" he snaps, hurrying after the stranger. 

He gets another half-assed "Sorry—" followed by a sheepish "—but I'll be late!" before the stranger ducks around a corner, disappearing into an alley. Atsumu runs in only fast enough to see a rusty door clanging shut, the tall dark man outside it crossing his arms and looking down at Atsumu. 

"Main entrance is that way," he says, gruff, tone leaving no room for argument.

"Whatever," Atsumu mutters, knowing a lost cause when it slips behind a guarded door and out of reach. He walks back out of the alley, glancing both ways because he can't remember which direction he came from. 

That's when he notices the line of people snaking down to the other side of the block. It's moving slowly, the people at the front of it disappearing into a similarly rusty metal door that looks like it matches the one Atsumu had just tried to get into, but there's no visible sign above it—not even an unlit sign—to indicate what the line is for. 

It's late. 

At some point Atsumu's gonna have to head back.

Tomorrow he's getting a co-pilot who'd have been taught to take nothing into the drift with him.

So fuck it. 

Tonight Atsumu can do what he wants.

* * *

What he wants turns out to be this: a large warehouse packed wall to wall with people, some kind of noise trying to pass off for music blaring from above, muffled only by hoarse yelling all around him, bars on either side selling overpriced drinks, and an elevated, darkened ring at the center.

"Last call!" someone hollers next to Atsumu, a scrawny kid with a booming voice pushing his way past the crowd, holding up a wad of bills and what looks like tickets in one hand, a pen tucked behind his ear. He makes quick work of it, taking money in exchange for the tickets, noting things down as he goes. "Last call for the next match! You placing a bet, pretty boy?"

Atsumu shakes his head. "Just here to watch," he says, as the spotlights turn on with a loud click, focusing on a single figure with a megaphone in the center of the ring, waving her arms out with a flourish.

"Welcome—" she says, the words nearly drowned out by the crowd cheering around her, so she only comes back louder, "—to Rio!" 

The spotlights swing away from the host and toward opposite ends of the ring. There's something that sounds maybe like a drumroll, a low persistent beat that coalesces into unified chanting—or is it cheering? Atsumu lets that fade into white noise, his gaze on the two figures circling each other in the ring. Though they both wore masks, one of them was clad all in black, a little shorter than his opponent, and the other was decked like royalty, with a velvet cape he throws to the crowd after his entrance.

Then a bell rings, and the match begins.

Atsumu misses who makes the first move, but both fighters dance around each other in a way that feels familiar and foreign all at once. The techniques themselves are rooted in the basics of mixed martial arts, attacks, and blocks Atsumu was taught alongside the other cadets at the Shatterdome—but the fight itself is rough and unpredictable, the countermoves counterintuitive, the flow of movement choppy and uneven. Unchoreographed. 

But they are fast— _damn_ were they fast—and they are evenly matched. 

It's impossible to look away. A roundhouse kick is met not with the standard defense of a block but a countering parry, offense met with offense until both fighters leap back to reassess, breaking only momentarily before the sparring starts anew. 

And the guy in black—the ninja, Atsumu thinks the crowd calls him—is impossible to look away from. His opponent is polished and experienced, fighting skills on par if not even slightly better at times, but the ninja moves with an agility that Atsumu hasn't seen anywhere else, his approach unorthodox but displaying an uncanny sense of alertness and self-awareness of the entire ring, unafraid to make use of the space he's given to cut his attack lines in surprising ways, keeping his opponent on his toes and Atsumu's entire body thrumming with an eagerness, an anticipation, he hasn't felt in years.

Atsumu forgets someone is keeping score until the bell rings, enough blows landed on one of the fighters to declare the ninja victorious.

"Is there a next one?" Atsumu asks the bookie once he's done paying out the winners. "Another match, I mean."

"That's the last one on the schedule." The bookie shrugs. "Should've placed your bet when you had the chance."

"Actually—" Atsumu hasn't taken his eyes off the ring. "What do I have to do to get up there?"

* * *

It's easier than he expects. The bookie just cocks his head at Atsumu, looking him up and down before he turns around and gestures for Atsumu to follow. He says he can't promise anything, but the manager he talks to—silver-haired, with thick dark eyebrows and sharp eyes—takes the request in stride, hollering around the backstage to see if anyone's up for a bonus round.

"I want the ninja," Atsumu says before he can stop himself. "I wanna go up against him."

"Awfully demandin' for someone we're all doing a favor here—"

"I don't need a cut of anything," Atsumu says. "He can get it if he wants, you can split it, I just—"

"I'll do it, Kato-san." 

Atsumu grins. The ninja's shorter than he looks from when he was up on the ring, face remaining obscured behind the mask, but his eyes are a bright hazel that meets Atsumu's gaze straight on. "Perfect," he says, barely glancing at Kato as he asks, "Anything I should know before I get in the ring?"

Kato grunts. "Combat Room rules apply, so you're fine. You look surprised—think you're the first cocky-eyed cadet that's found this place? You're not as subtle as you think."

The bookie next to him cackles. "The drenched rat look was a good disguise, but those boots are standard-issue PPDC gear, aren't they?"

"Wasn't trying to hide anyway," Atsumu grumbles, inexplicably annoyed. He locks eyes with the ninja, but he's the only one in the room who doesn't seem to find Atsumu's identity a laughing matter, his gaze even and thoughtful. Assessing, even. He's not sure what to make of it, but he almost jumps out of his skin when the bookie claps him on the shoulder, gently nudging him out of the room.

"This way or we won't end at a decent hour tonight," he says, and then Atsumu's climbing into the ring, dimmed to obscure his entrance, the spotlight once more focused on the host in the center. There's a reverberating cheer that seems to shake the ring itself as the bonus match is announced, the echoes of it thrumming beneath Atsumu's skin. Across the ring from him, the ninja falls into a familiar starting stance. Atsumu mirrors it.

They're moving before Atsumu even realizes the bell has rung.

He'd thought it earlier, but in the same ring now, sparring against him, Atsumu can say this for certain: the ninja is _fast_. There is no hesitation in his movements, no pause for breath or second-guessing as he attacks, counter-attacks, twists out of the way, and parries in perfect concert with—against—in time with—Atsumu's offensive barrage. He moves with fluidity and ease, agile and swift enough to either keep up with Atsumu's pace or set it, Atsumu can't tell which. A blow is blocked with a forearm stronger than it looks; when Atsumu spins around to sweep the legs out from beneath his opponent, he finds himself a millisecond too late, the other man already somersaulting out of reach. 

There's a beat of quiet.

He gulps for air.

From behind the mask, hazel eyes glint with something that makes Atsumu grin, and he's raising his arms in time to meet the oncoming blow—he ducks, he swings, he's blocked, he leaps, he kicks, he slides out of the way, just barely avoiding a blow to the neck. 

Atsumu's lips curl into a smirk he's sure is echoed behind the slip of a cloth covering the ninja's mouth, his jab cut off before he can even complete the swing of his arm. He maneuvers out of the way in the next breath, palm closing tight around the foot that's on a trajectory for his head.

"Two all," the ninja says simply, and Atsumu huffs out a laugh because he's been keeping score too.

"I've seen what I needed to see," he says. "Why don't we—"

The doors slam open then, lights flooding the warehouse as officers storm in, and the place erupts into chaos.

* * *

Osamu says nothing when he picks Atsumu up from the Marshal's office hours later, which is more than Atsumu can say for the Marshal when _he_ picked Atsumu up from the precinct hours earlier. 

In contrast, Osamu simply nods at the Marshal, scratching at his nose and giving Atsumu a once-over before he turns around to walk him back to his quarters, slouched over with his hands in his pockets and not even an "Alright?" to spare. 

Atsumu prefers it—that is, until they reach his room, and Osamu clears his throat.

"'Tsumu," he says. "I just gotta ask."

"Yeah, 'Samu?"

"Whose shoe do you got there?"

"That's a good question, 'Samu," Atsumu says, glancing down at the boot he'd clung to through the detainment, the questioning, the lecture. It's a little small, worn but sturdy, the only thing left behind—still solidly in Atsumu's grip, though its owner had vanished into thin air—when the police arrived. He beams. "It's my new co-pilot's."

* * *

"I am _not_ covering for your ass while you get yourself arrested for the second time in two days sneaking out of the Shatterdome," Osamu hisses at him as they leave the mess hall, but his voice is still too loud for Atsumu's liking.

"You have no sense for stealth at all, do you?" Atsumu huffs, placing his palm over Osamu's mouth. Osamu promptly bites him. "Hey!"

"That's the shoe-holdin' hand," Osamu spits out. "Gross. What're you gonna do anyway? How're you gonna find a person you've never actually _seen_ in all of Tokyo? With a _shoe_. You think this is some kind of fairy tale—"

"Obviously not," Atsumu snaps, irritated anew in the face of Osamu's pragmatism. "But I'm not going into tryouts without at least attempting to find him first. Don't need to see anybody else. I just—I just need to show the Marshal he exists."

"You're that sure, huh?"

"You weren't there, 'Samu. But you know how it feels, when we spar together? And how it was when we started training with the others?"

"They called our techniques raw if I remember right," Osamu says. He scratches at the nape of his neck, and the glance he gives Atsumu comes with a half-shrug, as though to ask, _And?_

Atsumu scuffs at the floor. "You never went into the drift with anyone other than me," he reminds his brother. "The difference you felt between sparring me and the others? In the drift it's—it's even more—I don't know. I just. I don't like it."

"Mm. Picky."

"That's not it." Atsumu frowns. The honest truth is, if push came to shove, he _would_ be able to get into a Jaeger with Sakusa or Bokuto or hell, even the Marshal, and they'd be fine. The Jaeger would function. He doesn't have a convincing explanation to justify this so-called pickiness, just a memory of a drift that comes with a natural connection, that give-and-take of personalities that made room around each other in headspace, and the way everything else since then, after Osamu, has been like entering a chilly room cleared of baggage and clutter, like some kind of houseguest instead of— "You can't just calibrate personalities on command. That's not how it was supposed to work."

Osamu sighs, looking up at the ceiling. "You haven't got a lot of time until tryouts, you know that right?" 

Atsumu shrugs. "It's not until this afternoon anyway," he says. "I got plenty of time."

"Do you even have a plan?" Osamu asks. "Besides sneaking out of here?"

"Of course I do," Atsumu says with a scowl. "I'm gonna go back to the warehouse—"

"Which is probably boarded up by the authorities right now—"

"Find the people in there—"

"Who are likely laying low and avoiding any known locations so they won't get arrested for running an underground fighting ring—by the way, damn, how did you only get away with a lecture? _Tch._ I knew the Marshal played favorites."

"And ask them where—" Atsumu groans. "Shut up, 'Samu. Shit."

"Mm."

"You're right."

"Mmhm."

Atsumu sinks to the floor, clutching at the shoe with both hands. "I'll never find him like this."

"Mm _hmmm._ "

Something about the tone of it makes Atsumu glance up, and sure enough, Osamu's hooded gaze flickers away, the corner of his lips twitching. "What."

"Didn't say nothin'."

"'Samu—"

Osamu snorts. "You're hopeless," he says, squatting down so he's at eye-level with Atsumu. This time he doesn't hide the self-satisfied smirk that graces his lips. "But lucky for you, I'm not. This shoe they left behind—"

"Yeah?"

"You know it's PPDC-issued, right?"

* * *

"And how long were you planning on holding onto that information, you bastard!" Atsumu hisses at Osamu as they finally reach the door leading to one of the hangars, his face puffed up in a scowl that Osamu only laughs at.

"I was trying to see how much help you needed first," he replies, snickering. "Are you following me to work? Don't you have—whatever it is rangers have going on right now?"

Atsumu shrugs, and no one says anything when he walks in next to his brother, both of them immediately surrounded by the bustle of the crew working around the clock to service the Jaegers stored there. "I got some sims to go through before the tryouts, but I was going to get to it after lunch," he says. "Plenty of time to—"

"Get the entire Shatterdome to line up and see if the shoe fits?" 

"Not the _entire_ Shatterdome, don't be silly. Just only those who are about this high and—oh, you were making fun of me," Atsumu huffs, elbowing his snickering brother. "Is it really that crazy an idea?"

"Maybe you can narrow it down first to just all the maidens in the land."

"You know anytime you wanna start being helpful, I'd be all ears—" 

Osamu laughs. "I actually came here to work, you know?" he says, holding out his hand to stop Atsumu before they run into a passing transporter and heading over to one of the enclosures that kept the next-generation Jaegers.

Atsumu frowns, realizing Osamu had led them to the Jaeger designated for Bokuto and Sakusa, a partnership Atsumu still marveled at—drifting with Bokuto was as overwhelmingly loud as drifting with Sakusa was as eerily quiet, but perhaps that was where they both found their middle ground. "You're not working on our—mine?"

Osamu lifts an eyebrow. "What makes you think I would work on yours?" he asks, waving at one of the mechanics walking by. "Kozume-san, my brother here wants to admire his reflection in front of his Jaeger today. Can you do me a favor and help get him off my back since you're headed that way anyway?" To Atsumu he rolls his eyes. "Don't give me that, you should go take a quick look while you're here; they've done a lot of cool work with that Jaeger of yours."

"Of course, Miya-san," Kozume says, though he barely looks at Atsumu before he's on his way, surprisingly quick for a man who moves like a languid cat. Atsumu has to jog over to catch up to Kozume, ducking when a passing transporter nearly nails him in the head with its cargo of oversized beams. 

"Were you involved in the work for my Jaeger?" Atsumu asks, for lack of anything better to talk about, but finding the quiet a little oppressive.

"In a manner of speaking," Kozume tells him. He glances sideways at Atsumu—the look doesn't feel remotely warm. "I oversee the Jaeger program in this Shatterdome."

Atsumu blinks. "But you—" he starts, shutting up before he can say something insensitive like _look like you're only sixteen_ , even though he's sure that isn't the case. He opens his mouth to try again. "That's impressive. Thank you for your work, Kozume-san."

"You don't need to thank me for your Jaeger," Kozume says. "All of the work on it has been thanks to—"

"Hey, watch where you're going!" Atsumu calls out, blinking when he realizes he'd already stepped aside and reached out, his hand closing around an elbow to support the weight of someone—another mechanic, judging from his grease-streaked jumpsuit—who'd appeared out of nowhere and nearly stumbled into the two of them.

"Sorry!" comes the apology, like a lightning strike the way it sends a current jolting through Atsumu's body and rooting him to the spot. 

"S'okay, just—" he says, glancing down to meet the wide eyes looking up at him and _oh_ , he thinks; _I've heard this apology before_ , he remembers; _they're hazel, just like—_ he realizes, and the other shoe drops.

"Is that," Kozume starts, his voice sounding so far away and almost garbled, like Atsumu is underwater with the sea in his ears— "Miya-san. _Miya-san._ "

Atsumu shakes his head, forces his attention back to Kozume. "Yeah?"

"I said, you should pick that up or it'll be a hazard."

"Yes, sorry, I—" Atsumu lets go for a moment to bend over and pick up the shoe he'd dropped.

Kozume doesn't acknowledge the apology. "Shouyou, are you alright? You signed in late this morning and then nearly ran into Miya-san."

"Ah, sorry, Kenma, I was just—" 

"Getting new boots?" Atsumu asks, eyeing the shiny, unscuffed leather that Shouyou wore. He stands up, and the eyes that meet his gaze are sharp and keen. 

"Yeah," comes the answer. "These have been a pain to break in all morning."

"New leather is the worst," Atsumu agrees, and he's not imagining it, is he? The sparkle in that gaze that stays on him, the challenge, the invitation? "Did you lose your old ones last night?"

"No," Shouyou says, the corner of his lips threatening to curl upward. "Some freak stole it right off my foot."

"Unbelievable," Atsumu huffs—half-laugh, half-exhale, all helpless. "Sounds like a Category 5 jerk to me."

* * *

They had the jumpsuits measured and fitted to their exact specifications, but Atsumu's ribs feel tight with the material around his torso, sturdy and light and plastered like a second skin. He swallows a gasp when the spinal clamp is attached to the back of his suit, his shoulders pulling back as the clamp secures itself to him, then to the Jaeger. 

The helmet goes on next, clicking into place moments before the relay gel disperses from the visor down to the circuitry suit, and his vision is clear once more.

He glances to his side—Shouyou's already looking back.

"That's a better look on you than the mask," Atsumu says, grinning.

Shouyou laughs. "You're not stalling, are you, Atsumu-san?"

"Never," Atsumu says, stepping into the pod to prove his point. The pedals clip onto his feet, the back of his suit plugged into the wiring, thin metal circling one wrist to lock him in place as the control pad rises for his other hand to take. Shouyou's ready next to him at the same time he's done, letting Atsumu open the communication line with LOCCENT Mission Control.

"Good morning boys," Meian greets over the comms. "Marshal Foster is on deck; we are getting ready to engage the drop."

"Hold tight," Atsumu tells Shouyou, but even his footing isn't as steady when their Conn-Pod lurches forward, dropping into the shaft that connects to the body of their Jaeger. 

"Connection confirmed," Meian reports.

The Marshal's command follows shortly after: "Engage pilot-to-pilot protocol."

Atsumu holds his breath and lets it out slowly, barely listening to the automated voice announcing, _Pilot-to-pilot protocol sequence initiated._

"How's it looking down there, Miya? Hinata?"

It's Shouyou who replies. "Vulpine Helios, ready and aligned, sir."

"Prepare for neural handshake."

_Neural handshake initiating in thirty seconds…. twenty-nine… twenty-eight…_

Shouyou turns off the two-way connection, his head cocked at Atsumu as they are counted down. "You know I got a _lot_ of advice from a lot of different people about drifting with you."

Atsumu snorts. "Is that so? My brother? Bokkun? Omi-kun?" 

_Eighteen… seventeen…_

"It wouldn't be nice to name names," Shouyou says, but his eyes gleam with amusement. "Should I be worried, Atsumu-san?"

"You tell me. Do you feel like you gotta be worried?"

Shouyou chews on his lip, giving the question thought. "No," he decides. "Is that weird?"

"Depends on who you ask." Atsumu shrugs. "I don't think it's weird at all."

_Six… five…_

"Why is that, exactly?"

_Three… two…_

"You'll see in the—" Atsumu starts to say before they plunge into the drift and they're flooded with snatches of memories _(Atsumu's first day walking into Inarizaki, Shouyou scavenging for parts in a scrap junkyard)_ , emotions _(the resolve forming when Shouyou sees a Jaeger for the first time, the burning frustration when Osamu tells Atsumu about switching track)_ , sensations _(the cold of the Tokyo rain in midsummer that night they met at Rio)_ flowing warm around and through their consciousness, gently filling up the spaces in between. Everything shifts and moves around them until they find their center of gravity, their footing, and it's warm like welcome— and then they're— 

" _Oh_ ," Shouyou gasps. He looks up, echoing the grin Atsumu's wearing. "It feels like—"

"Yeah," Atsumu agrees, letting out their breath for them.

—they're home.

**Author's Note:**

> With many many thanks to tau and Zoe, who looked this over and provided feedback to make it much much better than its original draft. ♥
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments would be much appreciated.
> 
> If you liked what you've read, please consider [sharing it on Twitter,](https://twitter.com/slumberish/status/1289194602184888320) or checking out the handful of [other Haikyuu!! fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/works?fandom_id=758208) I've written.
> 
> I'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/slumberish) if you wanna say hi!


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